


Mirabile Visu

by herewestandinfireandblood (fairytale_bliss)



Series: Amor Vincit Omnia [8]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Jorah Mormont Lives, Jorleesi babies - Freeform, Minor Character: Lyanna, S8 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28324821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytale_bliss/pseuds/herewestandinfireandblood
Summary: [Showverse] But she is warmer now than she was when they first visited, bowing her head in acknowledgement of Daenerys’ position even if she will never bow to her as queen. And there is friendliness in her voice as she says, “Your Grace, cousin, welcome to Bear Island.”
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Amor Vincit Omnia [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541743
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Mirabile Visu

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Game of Thrones.

_Mirabile Visu_

It’s been a long time since they visited Bear Island. Not since their first stay, when Jorah showed her the sights of the place that had been so dear to his heart. Not since her impulsive, impassioned decision to marry him beneath the hushed, watchful eyes of the old gods.

So much has changed since then. Things that she’d never thought possible.

Jorah stands beside her at the bow of the boat, where he has promised to always be. He has one arm around her shoulders, keeping her against his side in the protective embrace of a bear, whilst the other supports Eleana. She’s bundled up beneath his furs to keep her warm, just two violet eyes visible from the depths of his cloak. Even at such a young age she has more of the look of the dragon than the bear cub, and dragons do not cope very well with cold. Daenerys shivers herself, drawing her own furs closer. This far north there’s ice in the water; she sees chunks of it floating on the surface as they traverse through the waters. Winter may have broken, but the cold never leaves this place.

The cold doesn’t appear to bother Daenora. Daenerys can see her between Missandei and Grey Worm, her two friends keeping a close eye on her as she peers over at the frothing sea beneath them.

“We should be there within the hour if the wind keeps as it is,” Jorah says, bringing her attention back to him.

“You’re a sailor now, are you?” she teases, stepping closer to his side. Despite his chilly origins, her bear is as warm as his sigil. He’s kept her very, _very_ warm on their journey from King’s Landing.

He grunts at her, unamused. “I’ve sailed on the waters around Bear Island enough to know. And we had to repel the pillaging of the bloody krakens enough times.”

“Pyke’s not like that anymore,” Daenerys reminds him with a gentle roll of the eyes. “Yara Greyjoy is a fearsome queen and keeps her people in line.”

“Westeros wasted all those years on inept kings when the answer was staring them in the face the whole time,” Jorah jokes. “If they’d had queens, none of this would have happened.”

“I don’t know about that,” says Dany. “Women can be just as bad as men. Look at Cersei Lannister. And my ancestor Rhaenyra. No maester will ever record their reigns as successful ones.”

“And now we have three young queens who are transforming the world. One of them is doing a particularly wonderful job.”

“You have a honey tongue, ser.”

“I was talking about Sansa Stark.”

She swats at his arm and he gives her one of those rare, beautiful smiles, leaning down to kiss her. She resists his advances for just a moment; it’s impossible to punish him when he’s that close to her, when he looks at her like that, with his eyes sparkling with youthful mirth, when that scent of him ensnares her nostrils. Her mouth opens beneath his, pressing closer to him as he slips one arm around her and brings her closer. He loves to do that, she knows. Keep his family close, his dragon and their dragon cubs, like the protective bear he is. Not that dragons need protection. They’re more than capable of fighting their own battles. But sometimes it is nice to have another ferocious beast looking out for her.

Disgruntled squawking from the depths of Jorah’s cloak interrupts them, and Daenerys dips her head away from his mouth, laughing as she hooks her index finger into the furs. Violet eyes blink reproachfully up at her.

“I don’t think Eleana appreciates her papa squashing her,” she teases.

“I wasn’t squashing her!” he protests. She leans up to press a commiserating kiss to his cheek, tasting the salt in his stubble.

“I know you didn’t mean it. Let me take her for a while. We should probably get her below deck, out of the cold.”

“You’re right,” he agrees, shifting to hand her over. “I’ll come and find you later?”

“Of course,” she replies. She knows what he isn’t saying; that he wants to watch his dear Bear Island slip into view on the horizon.

Jorah hands Eleana off to her and Daenerys moves back towards the stairs which will take her below deck. Casting one last fond glance over her shoulder, she disappears back into the warmth.

\-- --

Just like the last time they visited, there isn’t a leal waiting party at the dock. Lyanna Mormont is a headstrong young woman, and she won’t alter her approach for anyone. Even if the visitor is the queen of the six kingdoms, even if the visitor is joined to her by marriage.

At one time, when she first reached Westeros, Daenerys would have taken it for a slight. Now, much more comfortable in herself, she can appreciate that Lyanna has the stubborn strength of the Mormont blood in her veins just as much as her cousin does.

The unsmiling castellan awaits them on the shore, at least an upgrade on the last time they were here. Daenerys remembers Hullin well, and how she had bristled at his way of speaking to Jorah. He’s still gruff now as he greets him, but there’s a softness about the edges that wasn’t present before.

“Mormont,” he says, and the two men grasp hands and shake firmly. Hullin casts a glance over Jorah’s shoulder. “Your Grace. It’s nice to see you again.”

“And you,” says Daenerys, accepting his short, cursory bow.

“And these are the cubs?” Hullin’s eyes rove over the two girls. Eleana wriggles in Dany’s arms, blissfully unaware of any scrutiny, but Daenora presses closer to her side, her little hand grasping a fistful of her winter furs.

“Aye,” says Jorah, the pride in his voice unmistakable.

Hullin laughs. “Everyone here wagered you’d have girls. You Mormonts don’t seem to know how to sire sons.”

“And you more than anyone know that Mormont women are even more fearless than the men.”

“And better at ruling,” Hullin quips.

At one time Jorah would have flushed with shame at any reminder of his transgressions. Daenerys doubts he will ever truly be free of those ghosts, but the years that have passed and the love that he now has have dulled it. No doubt it helps that they are married in both the eyes of gods and men, and they have a family of their own. That above all else helped to make him believe that this life was his.

“Lady Mormont is waiting for you at Mormont Keep,” Hullin says. “She’s instructed the servants to lay a feast in honour of her cousins. Her _female_ cousins.”

“Aye, that’s about right,” says Jorah ruefully, rubbing his chin. He turns to Daenerys. “Will you be all right riding with Nora?”

“Of course,” she answers. Jorah will take Eleana. Though she’s a more than capable rider thanks to her years on horseback travelling Essos, she can’t deny that Jorah is by far the more skilled of the two of them. It makes sense for him to take charge of Eleana whilst they make their way to Mormont keep.

Missandei takes hold of Eleana whilst Daenerys swings herself up onto her mare. Once she’s settled, Jorah hoists Daenora up, waiting until Dany has a steadying arm around her middle before letting go.

“Be good for your mother,” he tells his daughter. “Do as she says or the Bear King will come for you and steal you from your bed.”

“Me good,” Daenora insists, and Daenerys drops a kiss onto the the furs that have been pulled over her head to keep her warm in this harsh landscape, unable to prevent the smile that curves over her lips. As if Jorah would ever allow anyone to steal his precious girl away. He would fight to the deepest pits of the seven hells to keep her safe.

Once Jorah and the rest of their party are settled, they move onward to Mormont Keep.

This path is only vaguely familiar to her. She’s been here only once before, back when she married Jorah in secret, and she remembers being in awe of the wild beauty around her. It’s no different now. The lush canopies of green leaves overhead tangle like lovers as branches from those ancient trees touch and twine. Ragged outcrops of rocks jut out like giant’s teeth, and she hears the silky bubbling of water somewhere nearby.

Bear Island has lost none of its beauty.

Daenora stares around at these new sights with great rapture. She’s known nothing but King’s Landing in her young life, with the bustling halls of the Red Keep and the riotous cheer of its surrounding city. Their travels from the Crownlands to the north have been eventful, but although the sceneries have changed, there has always been something comfortingly familiar about the rich green grasses and the roughhewn castles and keeps that mark the way.

Winterfell is another beast entirely. It’s bigger than almost every other castle they’ve visited, as sullen and brooding as the snows around it. The winds chill even where the fires burn, and there’s barely a smile to be found. Sansa Stark had welcomed them with her usual perfunctory congeniality. She’s not as icy now that the north has the independence it so richly craved, but they will never be friends.

That doesn’t matter. Sometimes having an ally is stronger than having a friend.

Daenora hadn’t much liked Winterfell. Despite being half a northerner herself, with the blood of the bear mingling with the blood of the dragon, she had found the castle too large and silent for her liking. Though their stay had been brief, Daenora had spent most of the time clinging to either Jorah’s furs or Daenerys’ own. She had evidently sensed the coolness between Sansa and Daenerys, for she hadn’t shown any inclination of wanting to linger in the Queen in the North’s presence.

She’d been slightly wary of Jon. Oh, he’d treated her kindly and hoisted her up on his shoulders and shown her Longclaw and its fearsome direwolf pommel, but though he is part Targaryen there has always been more of the wild north in him. He’s got a wildling woman now, he’d told Daenerys as they’d sat together in one of the great halls. She doesn’t have noble blood in her veins, she fights and swears with the best men, and she doesn’t care about sleeping in feather beds, but for the first time in years—perhaps for the first time since he lost Ygritte—Jon is happy.

He was never happy with her. Daenerys knows that. She’d seen it too, though she’d pushed it to the back of her mind and told herself that that was only because there was so much pressure on his shoulders, the one chosen to defend the north and the rest of Westeros against the horrors that crept for them in the night. They’d so rarely smiled, or laughed, or even _learned_ about one another.

Jon was a wolf without a true pack, who had had no place in the world at Winterfell amongst his Stark siblings. He had gone to the Night’s Watch searching for a home where he could fit in. He’d found friends, brotherly love…but still the sense of belonging had eluded him. Until he’d joined the wildlings and fallen for Ygritte.

Daenerys was like one of the last dragons ever hatched, stunted, blind, without wings. All she had ever known were sly men who wanted to use her as a pawn, a brother who whose kindness never came without a threat, and at worst was violent with pinches and slaps. She’d thought she’d found a place with the Dothraki, then as a ruler in Mereen…but that sense of home was always out of reach. Until she’d met Jorah Mormont. And so, over the years, home had gone from an abstract concept to a person.

The King Who Should Have Been, taking to wife a savage from the deepest wastelands of the north, where wildlings lay with giants and centaurs and all other manner of beasts. Jon Targaryen sullying the dragon’s blood with that of a commoner.

The Mother of Dragons, taking to husband a man from one of the smallest vassal houses in Westeros, often left shivering and forgotten on the edge of Westeros. Daenerys Targaryen forgoing noble beasts likes lions and wolves for the gruff, haggard bear.

They laugh together about it. The two Targaryens who would disappoint the family name, who would have the blood purists turning in their graves.

There are worse things in Westeros’ bloody history. And together the two of them have managed to bridge Westeros back together, the northerner and the southerner.

Jon one day might have children with his wildling woman, the strong woman warrior who wields spears and faces whatever storms might come with an iron grit.

Daenerys has two children of her own with the man who has been by her side longer than anyone else, the man she fell in love with and only realised incrementally when death had tried to take him from her. Two princesses for the realm. And whoever might turn their noses up at Jorah Mormont as consort are sure to melt at the sight of two such angelic faces. Flesh of fire, nerves of steel.

The one place Daenora had liked was Winterfell’s library, a vast space crammed to the rafters with books. She could not yet read, but she loved stories of any kinds. Bran Stark, the Three Eyed Raven, had entertained her with tales new and old, of legends stretching right back to the Night’s King and the King of Winter, and as recent their own struggle against the Night King. Those stories thrilled and terrified Daenora in equal measure, and for the rest of the trip she refused to sleep anywhere but sandwiched between her mother and father in their quarters. It had resulted in even less sleep for the two of them, but Jorah had only sighed and kept watch over all three of his girls as the candles burned low and the fires guttered.

Thankfully, Daenora seems to like Bear Island more. The lush colours and the plethora of animals roaming the landscape delight her, and she point out each bird and deer she sees as they traverse the winding paths. Daenerys keeps a protective arm around her soft belly, keeping her close.

At last, they reach Mormont Keep.

Last time they were here Lyanna Mormont had greeted the in the courtyard surrounded by her household, as sullen and disinterested as her forebears. There had been grudging courtesy shown and nothing more; the welcome had been as warm as the north was.

Things have changed since then. Lyanna is both older and taller, a maid of ten and eight, grown from the slight child to a majestic she-bear. Now she’s almost as tall as the men who serve her, and just as fearsome to behold. She has a longsword strapped to her side and a black cloak of bear fur.

Lyanna will never be one for smiles and kind gestures. They are for the people who want to play their pretty games. With Lyanna, there is nothing lurking beneath the surface.

But she is warmer now than she was when they first visited, bowing her head in acknowledgement of Daenerys’ position even if she will never bow to her as queen. And there is friendliness in her voice as she says, “Your Grace, cousin, welcome to Bear Island.”

“It’s good to see you, Lyanna,” Jorah says. “You’re looking well.”

“And you, ser.” Lyanna turns her attention to the children. “These are my cousins?”

“Yes, my lady,” says Dany, stepping forward. She keeps a steady hand on Daenora’s shoulder as Jorah joins their side, Eleana kept close to him to keep her shielded from the wind.

Lyanna kneels down in front of Daenora as the little girl eyes her.

“Hello,” she says. “I’m Lyanna, your cousin. Your papa’s family. It’s nice to meet you, little bear.”

Daenora glance up at Daenerys for guidance. Dany only smiles, encouraging her forward with a nod. She stumbles a little over her furs, and Lyanna reaches out to steady her. Studies her. Then turns her attention to the babe in Jorah’s arms.

Finally, she says, “This little bear cub has the look, cousin.”

“Aye,” Jorah agrees, standing taller, “she does.”

“Though Aunt Maege used to say that Uncle Jeor was a son of summer.”

“There was nothing delicate about my father,” says Jorah. Daenerys detects a note of insult in his tone. Despite the years and despite the heartache that passed between father and son, Jorah will not hear a word said against the man who raised him and broke him.

Lyanna scoffs. “Of course not. He was a Bear Islander. But he was the opposite to the north.” She indicates her own face. “What is that the southerners think of us? Sullen and dull. How many northerners do you see with dark hair and brown eyes? How many do you see without? You and Uncle Jeor were the odd ones out.”

Daenerys considers the words for a moment. She’d never met Jorah’s father, knows about him only the things that Jorah lets trickle through, for his memories are still painful and raw. But, he allows, they were alike. Jeor Mormont was taller and broader, a skilled swordsman in his own right. Stronger than his son. But they had both possessed sandy hair and sandy beards, strong features, the blue eyes of the Jade Sea. Already outnumbered in the home by girls, he had been set further apart by his light features to their dark. And that summer in the seed has been cultivated still further down the line. No one could ever deny that Daenora is Jorah Mormont’s daughter.

“She’s a beauty,” Lyanna announces at last. “Much more beautiful than any woman of Bear Island has ever been. Then again, she does have a Targaryen for a mother. Don’t people say that the Targaryens were the most beautiful people to walk the Seven Kingdoms?”

“Aye, but then I’m biased,” says Jorah. “I happen to think that my wife is the most beautiful woman to have ever graced this world.”

Lyanna rolls her eyes at such sentimentality, but turns her attention back to Daenora. “Would you like me to show you to your chambers, little princess? We have lots of interesting items in our keep because we are warriors. _All_ Bear Islanders are warriors, even the women.”

“Especially the women,” says Jorah.

Daenerys squeezes Daenora’s shoulder gently. “Walk with your cousin Lyanna. We’re right behind you, sweetling.”

Daenora nods, and Lyanna takes her by the hand. For someone renowned for being prickly, she is nothing but gentle with her little cousin, bending her head down to talk to her as they walk through the wooden front doors into the keep.

Daenerys smiles as Jorah sidles up beside her, an ever-present warrior as he cradles his daughter in his arms and keeps a watch over the rest of his family.

He is always there at her back, a reassuring presence that will never be anywhere else.

\-- --

They eat well that night. Fresh venison and lamb melting on the bone, potatoes and hardy root vegetables. The Bear Islanders are in fine spirits, boisterous and loud. Daenora is unused to such behaviour inside a castle’s walls, and stares around in wide-eyed apprehension.

Surprisingly, it is Lyanna who comforts her.

“Don’t worry about any of this,” she says. “They’re not that scary, honest. We women rule here. They know their places. You’ll grow up to be a ruler too. You have Mormont blood in your veins, same as me. If you’d like, tomorrow I’ll show you around the place. Would you like that?”

Daenora turns to her for approval. Daenerys smiles.

“If you want to, sweetling, of course you can.”

Daenora nods shyly in response.

“Good,” says Lyanna. “That settles it. We’ll have fun, I promise you.”

Dany has no doubt that they will. This softer side to Lyanna is unexpected but welcome. The younger woman had had so many female relatives before the War of the Five Kings, but now she is alone. Another female presence is clearly a welcome addition, even if said girl is just a child.

And it will be nice for Daenora to have an older female influence. Arya is kind to her but is in her twenties now and is more interested in the surrounding world than she is in a Targaryen baby.

It will leave Daenerys free to have a pleasant day with Jorah, too. Eleana gives them little trouble, so they will have a peaceful day retracing steps of their own. She’d like to visit the godswood again, and stand where they had on the day they had married. It will always be one of the happiest days of her life.

She glances at Jorah. His attention is away from her as he laughs with the captain of the household guard, horn of ale in hand. He’s more relaxed here than he has been anywhere in a long time. It’s a pity that she can’t give that life to him more often, but he doesn’t begrudge her anything. She is his queen as well as his wife, and he will worship her as such until the day he dies. To accept anything less would be a disservice to him.

She slips her hand beneath the line of the table and finds his own. He starts a little at the contact, but relaxes as she twines her fingers through the back of his.

This is what she’s searched for her entire life, she thinks. Not the Iron Throne. A sense of belonging.

Home.

\-- --

After they break their fast the next morning, Lyanna takes Daenora’s hand and leads her from the hall. Daenora looks shy but excited too, and Dany is sure she’ll have a lovely day.

She has a lovely day with her husband. Missandei and Grey Worm offer to take Eleana, not keen on the cold, so she takes Jorah’s hand and leads him outside. They visit the godswood and reminisce about their secret wedding. They trek down to the labyrinthine caves where Jorah took her on their first visit. There, they kiss in the darkness, his mouth curling in a smile over hers, his hands cradling her to him. She sneaks her hand inside his furs and presses her palm over his heart, feeling it beat. For her and her alone.

By the time they get back the sun is low on the horizon, ready to sink beneath the sea and mate with the water gods, for the moon to rise and bathe the world in silvery light.

“Is Lady Mormont back?” Jorah asks the steward who rushes up to assist them.

“No, milord,” he says. “Shall I let you know when she is?”

“Just make sure that Princess Daenora is brought up,” he replies.

“Yes, milord.”

They collect Eleana from Missandei and Grey Worm.

“She’s been an angel,” Missandei gushes. “An absolute angel.”

Dany suspects that Missandei would like a child of her own. She is made for motherhood; the Mother herself should be modelled on her, for she is strong and gentle and kind and all of those other wonderful things. But nor does she mention it much, likely out of respect for Grey Worm. Though there are plenty of ways for a man and a woman to have a child, Grey Worm cannot give her one in the way nature intended. A mother’s love comes in a thousand different forms, none more sacred than any other, but likely he blames himself for not being the kind of man who can give her a son—not any kind of man at all.

“Thank you,” Dany says to her friend. “I appreciate you taking care of her.”

“Anytime,” Missandei says warmly. “We’ll see you at dinner.”

They return to their quarters to change for the evening. Halfway through, Lyanna herself brings Daenora up to them. Their little girl is rosy-cheeked and beaming, but she clamours for her mama at once when Daenerys opens the door to her.

“Have you had a nice day?” Dany asks her.

Daenora nods eagerly, snuggling against her.

“We’ve had a lovely time,” Lyanna says. “We’ve scaled one side of Bear Island right to the other. Our Targaryen princess knows her father’s homeland as well as he does now.”

There’s a slightly satisfied note in the young woman’s voice, but Daenerys pays it no mind. She knows that Lyanna means nothing by it. Brusqueness and practicality is simply the Mormont way. The north will always be strongest in their veins, even if they have unbreakable ties to the south now. And the north is as much part of Daenora as the south.

“That’s good,” Dany tells her daughter. “Let’s go inside to get dressed and you can tell me and Papa all about it.”

They bid Lyanna goodbye. Daenora fidgets her way through dressing, talking nineteen to the dozen about everything she saw. Most of it is unintelligible, for she is still learning how to speak, but it’s heart-warming to see her trying so hard, earnest blue eyes peering up at them both. Daenora has always been a serious child, so much like her father. The child is Mormont to the bone, from looks right down to the long silences. What such a small chid can have to brood upon is lost to Daenerys, but their little girl’s brow is often screwed up in thought.

“No one could ever dispute that she is yours now,” she likes to tease him. “Not only does she look exactly like you she acts like you too.”

Jorah only laughs now, sure of his place in her life and in their family.

When they are dressed, they head down to the hall. Servants hurry in all directions carrying food and ale. The last time they had been here, the food had been simple and no-nonsense. A challenge to see how the southern queen used to opulence would survive without it. Now the food is rich and as extravagant as it’s ever likely to be in celebration of the two princesses.

They gather together, her party and Lyanna’s party both, laughing and drinking together as if they are friends of old. A band made up of Bear Islanders performs at the front of the hall, bawdy tavern songs and soulful soliloquies both. Jenny of Oldstones, Wolf in the Night, and Oh, Lay My Sweet Lass Down in the Grass. The tunes that tell tale of triumph in the darkness. The Giant Killing Maid for Lyanna’s legendary victory against the undead giant, their own fearless leader. The Dragon and the Bear for Daenerys and Jorah, acknowledgement of the astonishing odds they overcame that night. Daenerys enjoys them all.

As does Daenora. Their little girl claps with glee, pointing at the people who have got up to dance. Men and women alike partake in an undisciplined gambol that looks more dangerous than a melee.

“Northern dancing,” Jorah leans in to murmur in her ear with a grin. “Nothing like the delicate southron balls.”

“Are you implying that I’m not up to the challenge, ser?”

“Oh, I have no doubt you will be. Dragons are fearsome creatures.”

“They can eat men whole if they wish it,” she agrees, lowering her voice to a throaty growl. “Mayhaps you want to find out, my lord?”

There’s heat in his eyes, sun blazing on the sea. “Aye, mayhaps I do.”

“Later,” she promises him. “First you have your princess to attend to.”

Jorah glances down at Daenora, a smile gracing his face. “That I do. Do you want to dance, my princess?”

Daenora claps and nods, and Jorah swings her into his arms.

“We’ll be back soon,” he tells Daenerys.

“Of course. Have fun.”

She watches as Jorah places Daenora on the floor and bends down a little to hold her hand. She leads him into the fray. Daenerys isn’t worried. Jorah won’t let anything happen to her. She won’t accidentally get injured. He’ll protect her at any cost.

She smiles to herself as she watches him bending down more to her level. It’s amusingly sweet, seeing the tiny girl leading the large man around the floor, in furs that brush the ground and almost bury her tiny frame.

“You’ve got a fine daughter there.”

At the sound of Lyanna’s voice, Daenerys turns in her seat. The younger woman takes the one that Jorah has just vacated, leaning back casually.

“Yes,” Dany replies, “I do.”

“She’s an inquisitive little thing. Tough too. She’ll be a warrior one day.”

“I’ve no doubt.” Ever since she was old enough to curl tiny fingers around a wooden sword she has, desperate to be just like her papa. He spars with her when he has nothing else to do, deliberately leaving himself open and falling dramatically when that small sword taps his chest or stomach or legs. She laughs with glee then, elated that she has felled the greatest warrior to ever live.

“There’s something I want to ask you.”

Daenerys turns her attention back to Lyanna. “What’s that?”

“I know that she’s a princess and heir to the throne.”

Dany shrugs. “Not necessarily. That will depend on what _she_ wants when she’s old enough to decide. I’ve lived through enough to know that I will never push any child of mine in the same way that I was. My council and I are already making plans for what will happen in that situation.”

“Then how would you feel if I named her as my heir?”

That takes Daenerys by surprise. “Your heir? What about children of your own?”

Lyanna shrugs. “I’ll name her for now. She’s too young to understand. I’m not ruling out children of my own, of course, but none of the fools here interest me enough to lay with them. I want a true bear, not a whimpering pup. One day one might succeed, and if I have a babe they will be my heir.”

Daenerys knows that the Mormonts are completely unique when it comes to their young. She remembers Jorah explaining to her that the Mormont women didn’t bow down to the societal pressures of labelling babes bastards if they were born out of wedlock. Snows do not exist on Bear Island. All of Jorah’s cousins are technically bastards, but no one gives it a second thought. The she-bears give their cubs the Mormont name and so they are. Daenerys admires their courage.

“It’s an honour that you would consider Daenora so,” she says.

Lyanna shrugs. “She’s family. It makes sense. None of us know what’s around the corner for us, we ought to have learned that by now.”

It’s a sobering truth. Lyanna still walks with a heavy limp, has to take milk of the poppy for the pains she still has. She is stronger than most people. Others would have succumbed to their injuries, or lost themselves in the relief that the milk of the poppy could bring. Lyanna simply told the gods to fuck themselves and pulled herself through by her fingernails; she only takes milk of the poppy when the pain is almost overwhelming.

“My cousin will rule in her name should anything happen,” she continues. “Jorah was lord once, he has the experience. He did a good job at the beginning, I’m told, before he ruined everything for the Hightower woman. I know he’s your consort, but he’s still a Bear Islander. Would you allow him to return home?”

 _Bear Island isn’t his home,_ Dany wants to tell her. _His home is where I am. He’s lord commander of my queensguard, the father of my children, the other part of my soul. If you part us, it splits._

But she couldn’t keep him from his duty. If that was what was required of him, she would let him go. She’d have to. At least until he could leave it in other capable hands. The stewards here are as loyal as their rulers, and the maester seems a sensible sort. Jorah would have to take more frequent visits north, and for longer periods, but Rhaegal would make the journey time shorter.

And hopefully it will never come to pass. Lyanna is young and strong. There is no reason to believe she won’t live a long life.

“I won’t object to you naming my daughter your heir,” she says. “I’ll be honest with you, I would prefer to keep Jorah by my side, but I understand that sometimes duty comes first. Bear Island is very close to his heart. We would make it work.”

“Excellent.” Lyanna reaches for a tankard of ale. “I’m glad you feel that way. The north isn’t yours to worry about.”

“But the north is my husband, and I love him. We’ve known each other for so many years, we know each other better than anyone. People might not believe it about me, but I am more than my name and my titles. Jorah’s happiness is as important to me as anything else.”

“We might not have seen eye to eye to begin with, but I respect your strength. I know now that you are the kind of woman that our island wants.” Lyanna holds up her tankard, indicating that she wants Dany to do the same. “Welcome to the family, Daenerys Targaryen.”

And they’re only words, really; she’s been part of the Mormonts for years and has two children with their blood in their veins, bound by sacred vows to the exile lord, but it means the world to her anyway.

Verbalised acceptance from these hard-faced northerners who take anyone who isn’t them as an outsider who will never belong. She would never have admitted it to anyone, not even to Jorah, but it’s all she’s ever wanted. A family. To be absorbed, welcomed. To belong. To be loved.

So she raises her own glass and clinks it against Lyanna’s, toasting their sisterhood and truce while Jorah and Daenora dance together to the Dragon and the Bear.

\-- --

The night before they’re due to leave, Jorah pulls her aside.

“Come with me,” he murmurs. “There’s something I want to show you.”

“People will wonder where we are,” Daenerys says.

“Aye, and will most likely jump to the wrong conclusions. But there’s one more place I would like you to see before we leave. You never got to see it before.”

“I thought you’d shown me everywhere?” she teases. “Have you been holding out on me, Jorah Mormont?”

“No,” he says indignantly. “But it’s a sacred place, meant for mother she-bears. We honour that here. Last time you couldn’t visit. But this time…”

This time she _is_ a mother, to two little dragon cubs who belong to this land. Her whole family belongs here…and now so does she.

She follows Jorah’s stallion with her own mare. The silver light bathes him, lighting him like the just father above. He will always be the warrior to her, fierce and loyal, but his tenderness and sense of justice fits him beautifully.

They trek uphill, through deep snows. The horses snort, their breaths steaming from their nostrils, their flanks wet with sweat. Jorah pats his stallion’s neck.

“Almost there,” he promises. “Just at the top of the hill.”

They crest it, and draw their horses to a stop. Jorah swings himself down, moving across to help her. She’s more than capable of doing it herself and he knows this, but the gallant knight in him compels him to, and she can’t deny that she enjoys his strong arms around her. He lifts her easily, setting her feet on the ground. Together they tether their horses to a nearby tree, ready to embark on the final leg of the journey on foot.

Jorah holds his hand out to steady her as they pick their way down the side of the hill, using protruding stones as their path.

At last, they reach a tangle of bushes and vines, snaking like thick snakes through the cracks in the jagged rock face. To the naked eye, it looks like nothing more than a canvas of nature. But Jorah knows these lands. He immerses his hands in those vines and pulls them apart, revealing a narrow cavern within.

“Just in here,” he urges her.

Daenerys raises her eyebrow at him. “I see what this is, ser. A ploy to get me alone in the dark. I’m beginning to doubt that there’s anything more to this after all.”

“I am wounded you think so little of me, my queen,” says Jorah. He leans in closer, a glint in his eyes. “And I don’t need the dark to get you alone to do things.”

“What are you trying to say? That I’m easily manipulated?” she says, pretending to be affronted, unable to keep up the charade as he nudges her back against the entrance.

“Certainly not,” he replies.

All other words are lost then as she reaches up to kiss him, and he presses her back against those rough stones as she winds her fingers through his hair.

After a few moments, however, he pulls away, resting his forehead against hers.

“We’re not here for that,” he says.

“Or so you’d have me believe,” she teases, but allows him to extricate himself from her. She takes the hand he proffers her and follows him inside.

It’s pitch black, but Jorah doesn’t seem to need the light, sensing where he needs to put his feet. She stumbles in his wake, clutching tight to his hand.

At last the passage widens again…bringing them into a little alcove of trees.

Her breath leaves her in a rush.

Bear Island is a beautiful place. Many might not appreciate its savage splendour, but she is a dragon. Dragons know all about that.

But this place…this place is like a shrine, perhaps a consecrated place long left behind by the Children of the Forest. Untouched snow carpets the floor, so soft underfoot that its almost velvet, the trees bearing the weight of it proudly on their shoulders. Overlooking it all are the stars and the moon, silent observers of the ceremony below, their thousand and one lights flickering and twinkling as they herald the newcomers.

The bronze statue of the mother bear dominates the space. She’s on her hind legs, fierce, protective. Two cubs hide behind her rear legs. No foe will ever take them from her.

Jorah tugs gently on her hand and Daenerys follows him into the statue’s shadow.

“They say that all mothers who visit this place will be blessed with the strength of the bear,” he says. “There’s little on earth more protective than a mother bear. She will fight to the death for her cubs. Legend has it that one once roamed these lands. She took a man to husband and thus the Mormonts were born. If you kneel in her presence she will pass that power on to you.”

Some might find it a ridiculous myth. Vulgar. Many women won’t be interested in strength. They need songs and homely hearths, to sit prettily and make their husbands look good. But Jorah has brought her to this place because he knows she will appreciate it. That she will _want_ to partake. Because she is unlike most women; she is the strongest person he knows and he appreciates her. And she is a part of the Mormont family.

So she nods, and Jorah steps away to give her the space, for this is for the she-bears alone. She goes to her knees before the statue, leaning her head back so she can take it in. In the silvery moonlight, it looks like the she-bear’s eyes are glittering with life, looking right at her. Recognising another mother, another fierce warrior. Accepting her.

Daenerys rises, reaching out to stroke the bear’s mizzle. The metal is freezing to the touch, sending a shock through her already numbing fingers. She rubs it three times, and steps back. And it sounds silly, but she almost feels the power flowing through her.

Jorah offers his hand to her when she reaches his side.

“Thank you,” she tells him. “I feel privileged to have been here.”

“I’m privileged to have brought you here,” he replies. He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I love you.”

“I love you,” she responds, pressing closer.

They kiss there in the secret shrine, with the first flakes of snow lazily drifting around them.


End file.
